and the flames went higher
by hannahsoapy
Summary: Greg couldn't peel his eyes from the door, foolishly expecting the lumbering form of Crabbe to somehow appear.


Submission for QLFC Round Three

Keeper for the Chudley Cannons

Prompt: Tinikling Dance of the Philippines; write about a character who shows grace to someone who doesn't deserve it.

Word Count:1074

Extension: No

Reserve: Yes (teammate subbing in)

* * *

"Like it hot, scum?"

The flames erupted from Vincent's wand, and Greg instinctively backed away, the glimpse he got of Malfoy's terrified face imprinting itself on his retina. The heat was unbearably hot, but it all just seemed to make Vincent laugh louder, as Potter, Weasley, and Granger ran.

That seemed to be the sensible thing to do, since Vincent didn't appear to have any control over the flames at all. Greg didn't even know when he'd learned a spell like that.

"Run!" Draco shouted, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him along through a narrow path free of flames. Greg made a grab for Vincent, but he was too far away, and his eyes were fixed on the flames pouring from his wand.

"Crabbe!" Greg shouted, as Draco dragged him further away. "Drop your wand, Vincent!"

Vincent finally looked up at him, then, bewilderment and fear painted across his face.

It was the last he saw of him, as Draco tugged him round a corner of burning junk.

Greg didn't have much time to think about how they'd just left Vincent standing there, because the flames had been spreading, all around, and they were suddenly boxed in by scorching heat.

Draco tried to tell him something, but the crackle of the fire drowned him out.

Greg shook his head, and Draco gestured frantically for him to follow, and then he ran for the pile of junk on his left and started climbing.

It was burning, too, but not quite as badly as the other piles around them. Greg didn't totally understand how climbing up was going to get them out of this alive, but Draco had always been the one to lead them, so he must have some kind of plan.

Merlin's beard, please let Draco have a plan.

Greg didn't think he'd ever sweated so much in his life – not even during his first Quidditch match as Beater, when he'd nearly dropped the bat out of nervousness. He slipped several times on the pile of broken chairs and cabinets, trying to climb as quickly as possible to avoid burning his hands, but he could feel the blisters already half-forming.

Draco was nearly to the top of the pile, when Greg finally risked a glance up, and he saw him throwing an arm up, waving frantically.

Greg had only a moment to wonder who he was waving at when Potter swooped overhead, circling lower. He nearly stopped climbing in surprise as another broom came into view, carrying Granger and Weasley.

Greg could hardly believe his eyes. They were saved.

"If we die for them, Harry, I'll kill you!" he heard Weasley shout, just before they dove in.

Granger leaned down from behind Weasley, seizing a fistful of his jumper tightly. Greg's sleeves bunched up painfully underneath his armpits, but he really couldn't care less, as the broom rose higher, and cooler air hit his face.

He ended up awkwardly wedged in between the mud-Granger and Weasley, squished sideways on a broom that obviously had barely handled two people well.

From his backwards-facing vantage point, he saw Potter fail in his first attempt to grab Draco, their hands sliding apart, and Greg's heart jumped into his throat for a second. Potter banked and made another pass, this time getting a better grasp on Draco, and Greg let out a breath of relief.

With a burst of cold air, although it probably only felt cold because of the heat of the Room, they crashed through the doorway and back out into the seventh-floor corridor.

Their landing was terrible, but Greg didn't much care, pressing his face gratefully into the stone floor of the castle. A few seconds later, Potter crashed into the hallway as well, only marginally more gracefully.

Draco rolled over, groaning, and croaked, "Crabbe."

"Crabbe," Greg repeated hoarsely, sitting up and staring in a bit of a daze at the door. Crabbe was – Crabbe was –

"He's dead," Weasley said harshly.

Yeah.

That was the word.

Greg couldn't peel his eyes from the door, foolishly expecting the lumbering form of Crabbe to somehow appear. He felt numb, like everything in the world had dulled and slowed around him. It felt impossible that Crabbe could be gone; it had always been the three of them.

A gentle touch on his shoulder startled him, and he glanced up.

"I'm sorry," Granger said quietly.

Greg was speechless. This wasn't uncommon, of course, but the reason for it this time certainly was.

Granger was sorry? For what?

Oh. She meant –

Greg stared at her. Did she mean it?

A stray lock of her hair caught his attention. It had apparently decided to ignore gravity and stuck out at an odd right angle to the rest of Granger's bush of hair. There was something else strange about it, too, because it ended in the middle of a corkscrew curl, and Greg realized, then, seeing the thin black line, that it had been singed off by the fire.

Granger was watching him worriedly now, and Greg still couldn't figure out why she cared.

He could see, beneath the sleeve riding up on her arm, the first few letters of the word Draco's aunt had literally carved into her, branding her, and yet she told him she was sorry?

Ten minutes ago, Greg would have happily tortured her.

Well, happily maybe wasn't quite the right word. Greg couldn't deny he enjoyed casting the Cruciatus, but he took more satisfaction from proving to everyone that used to look at him with condescension that he was actually good at something more than he really liked torturing just for the… torture.

The Killing Curse had never been asked of him, but Greg wasn't sure he could do that one.

Not now, anyway.

He cleared his throat of the ash and looked back at the mud-Granger.

"Thank you," he said, gruffly.

Granger was clearly surprised, but then her face softened.

"Oi! 'Mione!" Weasley's voice broke into the hazy moment. "C'mon, the diadem's toast!"

Granger paused, and then she smiled at Greg, one of those smiles that was more sad than happy, and then she turned and left, and the place where her hand had rested felt absent.

Greg watched them race down the corridor, around the corner, and out of sight, and then he looked over at Draco, still lying on the floor.

"Draco," he said, and the blond glanced up at him. "Let's go home."


End file.
